“You don’t have many visitors in Squalton?”
“We do not, though I hope to change that by petitioning the Duke of Rydell to lease or gift the town manor house to our historical society for use as a museum to attract visitors. The manor has a most fascinating history. I have just collected this book about the reign of Queen Elizabeth to better understand the role she played in gifting the manor to my distant ancestor, the Earl of Amberly. He lost the house to the Duke of Rydell in a game of cards. They were bitter enemies. The duke left the manor house to rack and ruin out of pure spite.”
“Bloody blasted Duke of Rydell, may he damn well rot in hell.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“And I yours.” He bowed. “I was repeating something I overheard in the public house.”
This just got better and better. Miss Oliver was related to the Earl of Amberly. Which made him her sworn enemy, historically speaking.
Miss Oliver glanced at the sky. “Gracious, it’s getting late. I promised my mother I wouldn’t be gone long. She’ll have invented fifty horrifying outcomes for me by now.”
“Then run along home, Miss Sandrine Oliver, whom I’ve never met before in my life.”
The hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “I do hope you enjoy your brief visit to Squalton, Mr. Smith. And if you happen to return, bring your friends to enjoy the seashore and the beautiful sights.”
She collected her book and rushed away, the wind catching her bonnet ribbons, rippling them behind her as though slender threads of blue sky followed wherever she went.
He could do more exploring around Squalton, but he was quite certain that he’d already beheld the most beautiful sight on offer.
The luscious Miss Sandrine Oliver in a wet, transparent shift.
Chapter Three
Be constantly on guard against the temptation to stray from the narrow path of righteousness.
—Mrs. Oliver’s Rules for Young Ladies
Had Mr. Pilkington looked directly at her as he read the ninth commandment in sepulchral tones, long face stern, one elegant finger lifted?
Miss Oliver, thou shalt not bear false witness.
Sandrine squirmed in her seat, face hot and palms itching. This was the first secret she’d ever kept from her mother. How could she have told her the truth about why her gown was damp and bedraggled about the hem and her hair tangled when she arrived home yesterday? She’d been forced to tell a lie. She’d said that she’d been splashed by sea spray because she’d stumbled and fallen.
All night long she’d tossed and turned, thinking about Mr. Smith in his wet shirt and clinging breeches looming over her. Dropping to his knees to caress her. The brush of his thumb over her lips. Thinking about it gave her palpitations and tinglings and all manner of alarming symptoms.
When she’d finally drifted off to sleep, her dreams had been filled with him. And theyhadn’t been tethered to reality. In her dreams, he’d laid her down on the shore and lowered his body on top of hers to keep her warm. He’d been forced to kiss her to revive her. He’d had to rip off her chemise to warm her so she didn’t catch a chill.
And then... and then he’d sprouted horns and cloven hooves, transforming into a hulking half beast, half man, and defiled her right there on the beach! Although her sleeping mind had been rather hazy on what, precisely, constituted defilement. It had involved lots of grunting, that much she remembered. And a most agreeable melting sensation in her most secret places.
Miss Oliver, thou shalt not imagine handsome strangers transforming into beasts and doing unspeakable things to you while you sit in church!
Her breath caught. Thank heavens. She’d only imagined Mr. Pilkington speaking those words. If he knew... if her mother knew... but they didn’t know. And Mr. Smith had promised not to tell anyone. He was probably already gone.
What on earth had she been thinking? To remove her gown in daylight, to go so far out from the shore? Why, she could have been swept out to sea and lost forever. Perhaps, in a way, she had been. The sinfully attractive Mr. Smith with his teasing words and admiring gaze had obviously been thrown in her path to illustrate the storms and temptations of life that her mother was always going on about.
Mr. Pilkington’s brow creased, and his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down as he warmed to histopic. “I know some of you are thinking, ‘It’s only a little lie. And I told it for good reason.’ But small lies beget larger ones. Small sins become bigger ones. The Great Deceiver knows our weaknesses. He tempts us when we are most vulnerable. He lures us down a crooked path that leads to immorality. One spark can ignite the conflagration that consumes the moral integrity of our soul.”
Mr. Smith had been the spark that ignited the conflagration of carnal cravings.
She inhaled deeply and rubbed her temples with her fingers, which usually made her feel more centered.
“Stop fidgeting,” her mother whispered without turning her head.
She mustn’t betray the turbulence of her emotions. She’d most likely never see Mr. Smith again. But then, there was the possibility that he might decide to stay longer. What would she do, what would she say, if she encountered him again? Especially after the dream version of him had debased her in such a thoroughly debauched, yet undeniably delicious, manner?
Her mother turned and stared at her. “What is the matter with you?” she whispered.